


It Ends With Love

by toyhto



Category: True Detective
Genre: After the Dora Lange case, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angsty Man Fluff, M/M, Marty doesn't buy Rust flowers, Set in spring/summer 1995, Slow burn feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: A bet, a houseplant, and a pack of condoms.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 18
Kudos: 90





	It Ends With Love

**Author's Note:**

> _I'll write something tiny about these two assholes_ , I thought. Don't know what happened but turns out this is almost 15k words and Explicit (just to be on the safe side because I can never tell where line is). I love these boys. Also, I'm on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

It begins with a bet.  
  
No, it begins before that. Probably. Maybe it’s one of those times when they’re driving somewhere, just the two of them, and Rust is talking his bullshit that Marty doesn’t want to hear, has told him so too. But it must be like one of those things you just can’t take back. He asked once and now Rust keeps talking. So, all that there’s to do is to squeeze the wheel tighter and try not to think about the things Rust is saying to him, because firstly, it’s just some crazy shit, and secondly, he’s got a funny feeling that if he starts listening, he’s going to get pulled under. And he doesn’t want that. He clears his throat and keeps his eyes on the road and sometimes, yeah, sometimes he glances at Rust from the corner of his eye.  
  
Maybe it begins like that.  
  
He’s pretty damn sure that Rust is going to drive him mad. He’s never got a partner who’s such an asshole and annoyingly competent, at the same time, and perhaps, just perhaps those things are related. Perhaps being an asshole is what makes Rust so good. Marty doesn’t have a fucking clue how Rust does it, he can’t follow half of what Rust is saying sometimes, and he doesn’t want to fucking know what’s going on inside Rust’s head. Must be a circus. A mayhem. A fucking graveyard, only he feels immediately bad when the thought’s slipped into his mind. Rust is still young. There could be better things for him in the future, like, a good woman, maybe. A good woman changes everything. Marty should know that. He had one.  
  
But when it _actually_ begins, it begins with a bet. He’s at the bar with the boys. Not with Rust, of course, because Rust doesn’t like people. It’s a mystery why he seems to tolerate Marty’s company in most days. And now even more often before, maybe because they solved the case or maybe because Marty’s staying at his place until Maggie’s going to let him back in. So, now Rust’s at home and Marty’s at the bar and he’s pretty drunk at this point, and then someone asks him if Rust is a faggot.  
  
“What?” he says, trying not to choke on his beer. The goddamn idiots, all of them. “Where the hell did that come from?”  
  
Later, he can’t even remember who said what. But none of these guys really like Rust. Marty can well admit that’s least partly Rust’s fault. It’s not like Rust is trying to make friends. But Marty’s pretty sure these idiots haven’t given Rust a chance, either.  
  
“Don’t you ever wonder?” someone says, no matter who.  
  
“Yeah,” someone else says, “he’s pretty fucking weird. Could as well be, you know.”  
  
“No,” Marty says and drinks more beer.  
  
“I bet,” someone says, “that he’d be into you if you asked. The way he looks at you, man, it’s… I bet… I bet a fucking hundred dollars that he’d let you fuck him.”  
  
“A hundred?” someone else asks.  
  
“Okay, maybe fifty,” and then everyone’s laughing, and Marty’s laughing as well, and he says something he can’t remember afterwards. It’s a joke, of course, and a fucking bad one, and he’s kind of feeling bad for Rust even though he doesn’t know why. Rust is smarter than any of these guys and fucking knows it. Rust wouldn’t give a shit about what they talk about him.  
  
But when he goes back to Rust’s place that evening, the idea is stuck in his mind, which is damn absurd, because no way in hell is he going to ask Rust… he would never fucking dare to suppose… and Rust was married, right, had a child. He’s not a faggot. And it’s not Marty’s fucking business anyway. They’re partners and possibly friends, well, they’ve got to be because he seems to be the only person in this world Rust bothers to talk to. Everyone needs a friend.  
  
“Fun night?” Rust asks, when Marty pours himself a glass of water. Of course Rust is still awake. The man doesn’t fucking _sleep._  
  
“No,” he says and clears his throat, “yeah. Yeah, it was fine.”  
  
Rust gives him a sharp glance but doesn’t say anything else, and he goes to his room and forgets about the whole thing.  
  
Except that he doesn’t.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Marty says a few weeks later. They’re driving and Rust’s been silent, thank god, only now it seems that Marty’s going to ruin that perfectly good silence himself. He glances at Rust and Rust looks back at him with something that looks like a vague interest in what’s Marty’s going to say. He’s probably faking it. “So,” Marty says with more emphasis, “how’s everything?”  
  
Rust frowns at him and then lights a cigarette.  
  
“Your life, I mean,” he says, because goddamn, he started already. “How’re things?”  
  
“You’re living with me,” Rust says.  
  
Well, that’s true. Marty is living with him, only of course it’s just temporary. Maggie’s going to forgive him soon, he knows it. And what he doesn’t know is what the hell he’s going to do if Maggie really wants a divorce, so that’s not an option.  
  
“It’s not like you talk much,” he tells Rust.  
  
“You’ve told me to shut up often enough,” Rust says. True, as well, but not the point at all.  
  
“Yeah, about evolution and how all human life is meaningless and stuff like that. You can talk to me about…”  
  
“About what?”  
  
Marty clears his throat. What the hell. “About women.”  
  
“Women?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Which women?”  
  
“That’s what I’m asking.” So, this conversation is going badly, which means that it’s going as expected. Maybe he could just drop the subject and turn on the radio. Rust would probably throw it at his face later, in the most uncomfortable situation the bastard could figure out, but Marty could laugh at it then. Now he doesn’t think he can. It’s too hot in here and he can fucking hear the boys talking their nonsense inside his head, _he’d let you fuck him._ _The way he looks at you…  
  
_“You alright?” Rust asks, now looking at him.  
  
“Of course I’m alright. Just trying to make some fucking conversation here.”  
  
“About women.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Rust is quiet for a few good seconds. “So, is there someone specific you want to talk about? Or should I even ask?”  
  
“What – no, of course not, fucking hell. I’m going to get back together with Maggie.”  
  
“Right,” Rust says and puts out the cigarette.  
  
“I _am._ ”  
  
“I never said you weren’t.”  
  
“I –“ Goddamn, they aren’t supposed to be talking about Maggie. “I just wanted to know if you have someone. A woman, I mean.”  
  
He’s sure Rust is going to say something sharp, something about how it’s not Marty’s fucking business. And he’d be kind of right about that. Marty tugs the collar of his shirt. Too damn hot in here, and it’s only May.  
  
“No,” Rust says, “no, I don’t.”  
  
Marty blinks. “Alright.”  
  
“That what you wanted to hear?”  
  
Marty opens his mouth and then closes it. Then he turns the radio on. Rust flinches as if there’s something wrong with country music, but yeah, serves the bastard right. He’s certainly preparing some kind of a smartass comment for Marty, only they drive and drive and the comment never comes.  
  
That night, Rust takes a shower and then walks around the flat wearing nothing except the towel hanging low on his hips. Marty’s just having a goddamn snack, that’s what he’s doing, and he doesn’t need this show. But he’s not enough of a fool not to realize nothing’s making him watch.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He doesn’t often drink at home – well, at Rust’s place, but Maggie’s still angry at him and Rust hasn’t told him to move out so he’s kind of started calling this place a home. Only in his mind, of course. And it’s only temporary. And he doesn’t drink here, because Rust doesn’t and it seems rude. But this evening he’s been tired and just can’t get himself to go to the bar, and that’s why he’s had a few beers already when Rust comes home from wherever he’s been.  
  
“Hello,” Marty says. He’s sitting at the kitchen, which is kind of Rust’s space. But maybe Rust is in a mood for company.  
  
The man walks past Marty, shrugs off his shirt and sits down on the mattress, takes a book and then glances at Marty. “Went for a ride.”  
  
Marty bites his lip. He wants to say that he didn’t ask, but he feels like he’s a dog and somebody just threw a bone at him. He’s not going to bark about it. “A ride?”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says and opens the book but doesn’t start reading.  
  
“I’ve had a few beers,” Marty says, pointing at the empty cans on the table.  
  
“I can see that.” Rust puts the book away, leans back against the mattress. Marty doesn’t know how he got arms like that. He must have been exercising more than Marty, or maybe it’s in his genes. “Everything alright?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Marty says, even though he’s been a bit lonely lately. It’s funny how much lonelier he’s now that Maggie’s not talking to him. It’s like he’s alone in the world. And Rust is there, like, all the time, only Rust doesn’t care about him, doesn’t do the things Maggie did for him. Doesn’t touch him, for example. Not that he wants Rust to, because he doesn’t. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Rust says. “I suppose we’re having a conversation.”  
  
“Really? What about?”  
  
“Maybe you should tell me.”  
  
“Women.”  
  
“No,” Rust says.  
  
Marty shifts in the chair. He wants another beer but the way Rust’s looking at him, all sharp and edgy… maybe he shouldn’t. Rust’s much smarter than him anyway. “Why?”  
  
“I don’t have much to say on that subject,” Rust tells him. “You know that.”  
  
“I don’t know shit about it.”  
  
“And if you want to whine over why Maggie won’t let you back –“  
  
“No,” he says quickly, “no, it’s not like that.” They’ve had a couple of those conversations. He already knows how it goes. Rust’s a bit too honest.  
  
“What’s it, then?” Rusts asks. He’s being surprisingly patient. Maybe he’s curious. Or maybe he’s…  
  
The goddamn bet. That’s why Marty’s thinking about this. That’s the only reason. And it’s only because he can’t forget about the bet that he finds himself looking at Rust’s arms and yeah, alright, Rust’s throat when the man swallows.  
  
“The boys were wondering,” he says, takes his empty can of beer and stands up. His feet feel perfectly steady. Great. He walks to the mattress and then just hovers there. “At the bar. When we were drinking. They were wondering…”  
  
“What?” Rust asks. He sounds totally uninterested.  
  
Marty sits down on the edge of the mattress. He’s so close to Rust that he can smell it, the goddamn awful mixture of cigarettes and cologne and sweat. Yeah, it’s awful. He clears his throats, grabs the can tighter and leans closer to Rust.  
  
“What kind of things you’re into,” Marty says, “that’s what they were wondering, you know. Women. Or something.”  
  
Rust snorts, the fucking bastard. Marty can feel his goddamn heart in his throat, like he’s going to choke on it, and Rust’s just… staring at him like it’s just another question.  
  
“Go to sleep, Marty,” Rust says.  
  
Marty takes a deep breath. “Or men. Because… and I know you think they’re all idiots and you aren’t exactly wrong there, but you see, they… they think you might be. You know.”  
  
Rust breathes out and then raises his hand. Marty blinks. Rust places his hand on Marty’s chest, pressing lightly, as if Marty’s trying… like he might try to…  
  
“You’re drunk,” Rust says, “and you don’t know what you’re talking about. Go to sleep.”  
  
And that’s it. Marty goes to sleep because Rust told him to. And later, Rust doesn’t bring it up again, not in the morning when they take turns in the bathroom, not that day when they drive twenty miles for a body that’s been under water for a week in this awful hot weather. Apparently, they’re going to pretend it never happened. And Marty’s fine with that, he really is, only it happens sometimes that he finds himself staring at Rust’s hands. Rust has done plenty of things with those hands.  
  
And when Marty thinks about it, it’s almost like he can remember the sensation of having Rust press a palm against his chest. Nothing sexual about it, of course, nothing of the sort. Just a friendly hand on his chest, keeping him in check. And what does Rust even think that Marty might have done? Does he think that Marty might have tried to fucking kiss him or something? Because that’d be absurd. He thinks about it and keeps looking at Rust, because Rust is always there, and then one morning in the kitchen Rust sighs loudly and comes to stand too close to Marty.  
  
“What the hell?” Marty asks, even though he’s not sure he’s very convincing. He’s holding his cup of coffee in his hand. Rust just came from the shower and still smells of soap. It’s kind of not bad.  
  
“All week, you’ve been acting weird,” Rust says, hovering at Marty’s personal space. “Just ask me.”  
  
“Ask you what?”  
  
“Whatever it is that you’ve been wanting to ask me.”  
  
Marty clears his throat. He should make it a joke, but he can’t think when Rust is this close to him. “You know what.”  
  
“No,” Rust says, “no, we aren’t going to do it like that. If you want to ask, you’ve got to fucking _ask._ ”  
  
“Maybe I don’t want to ask you anything.”  
  
“You’ve been staring at my fucking _hands_ ,” Rust says in a tone that says it’s not a question. He knows.  
  
Marty takes a deep breath.  
  
“Come on,” Rust says. “Don’t be a chicken. Just ask.”  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says, clearing his throat but it doesn’t help, “yeah, alright. It’s not a big deal, anyway. It’s just that, you know, the boys have been wondering, so they asked me, and it’s none of my fucking business, I know it, and you can fuck whoever you like, makes no difference to me, it’s just, I’m a bit curious.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Yeah. So, I’m just going to ask.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Are you…” But he’s not exactly sure how to ask it. He licks his lips and tries not to stare at Rust, but there’s nothing else to look at. “Do you like men?”  
  
“Not particularly, no,” Rust says, his face perfectly serious, but he’s fucking laughing at Marty, he can tell. Rust is having a laugh inside his goddamn head.  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says, because he’s being serious here, and it’s not fair that he asked Rust a personal question and Rust is just taking a piss. “But, do you _like_ them?”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says and takes a deep breath. “What do you think?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Marty says.  
  
Rust looks at him for a moment and then sighs. “I don’t think heterosexuality is exactly real,” he says, “it’s a cultural norm that’s so convincing we rarely doubt it. All people want to be seen as a normal. So, we do our best to negotiate identities that fit the expectations of the society.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Like I said,” Rust says, “I rarely like men. I rarely like women, either.”  
  
“That’s not an answer. Fucking hell, Rust –“  
  
“I don’t understand why you’re so curious about this,” Rust says. “It’s not like you’d be interested, anyway.” Then he pats Marty on the shoulder and walks away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Marty’s not interested.  
  
It's not like he doesn’t think Rust is good-looking. Hell, there’s just no way anyone with decent eyesight would fail to notice that the man’s pretty. The way that man stares at everyone and everything, yeah, it’s goddamn maddening, but Marty can imagine that it would be hot, too, in certain situations. Which he doesn’t think about. But there’s something fascinating about the way Rust looks at things. And his whole face, yeah, all sharp angles but, like, in good places. He looks like he could be an actor or something.  
  
And Rust has got those shoulders and arms, and Marty’s not jealous, not exactly, it’s just that Rust walks around in tank tops all the time. Maybe he does it on purpose. Maybe he’s just enough of an asshole to show Marty that he’s got nice arms. The joke’s on him, though, because Marty’s already noticed that. Marty’s not _blind._  
  
It was kind of a nice thing, actually, what the boys said to him in the bar. That Rust would let Marty fuck him. Because if Marty’s being completely honest with himself, he’s not sure he could meet Rust’s standards. Not that he’s thinking about it, but, well. If Rust really is like that, it’d be kind of a compliment if he was into Marty? Right?  
  
But obviously, Marty’s not interested. He thinks about it when they eat breakfast together and when they go to work together and when they solve the next murder in half a day, which is both boring and a relief. Neither one of them says that aloud. They stop at McDonald’s and Rust takes a chocolate milkshake for a dessert, and Marty watches him suck through the draw with his cheeks hollowing and with a look on his face that seems to suggest he’s trying to figure out the fucking universe. Who would’ve thought he’d pick _chocolate?_  
  
In the evening, they go back home. Marty takes a shower first and jerks off efficiently like you’re supposed to do when you’re staying with a friend. He’s not interested in Rust. He doesn’t even know what they would do. The kind of things men do to each other just seem… messy. He’s pretty sure he’d never want anything in his ass, not for real. Not even Rust’s fingers. Not even Rust’s cock. He thinks about it and comes with a moan that he hopes Rush isn’t going to hear, and then he finishes his shower and goes to the kitchen in a t-shirt and boxers. It’s too damn hot to wear clothes.  
  
Days go by like that. They do a lot of paperwork. He thinks Rust is getting a bit bored, but when he asks Rust about it, Rust says something about how boredom is an illusion, and Marty stops listening and just looks at his mouth. The more time passes, the less he’s certain of what Rust told him that day. He asked Rust if the man’s a faggot or not, and Rust told him something, but he doesn’t know what. Maybe it was a riddle and he forgot it. Maybe it was a challenge and he failed. Maybe Rust is disappointed because he thought Marty was smarter than that. Maybe -  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” Rust says, “stop the car.”  
  
Marty flinches. They’re driving and Rust is talking about how boredom only got invented after industrial revolution or some bullshit like that. God, the man’s a lunatic. Boredom wasn’t _invented_ , it’s fucking _real._  
  
“Marty,” Rust says in a tone that’s probably made someone somewhere shit himself at least once.  
  
“Stop the car? Why?”  
  
“I can’t deal with you anymore,” Rust says.  
  
Marty pulls the car over. They’re in the middle of the fields, no-one at sight, not fucking breeze of wind either, just still warm air of early summer. His hands on the wheel are sweaty. He wipes them in his trousers and Rust pushes the door open and gets out of the car.  
  
“Rust,” Marty says, “you don’t really have to be –“  
  
“Come here,” Rust says, walking around the car until he’s at Marty’s side. He looks like he’s waiting for a fight. Well, that’s interesting.  
  
Marty gets out of the car and pulls his shoulders back. He’s not a short man himself, but he’s got to admit that Rust has got at a least an inch on him, especially when they’re standing so close.  
  
“What?” Marty asks.  
  
“Someone asked you if I’m a queer or something and you just can’t stop thinking about it,” Rust says in a blank voice like he’s listing evidence.  
  
Marty opens his mouth to deny everything and then frowns. Well, that’s exactly how it went. He licks his lips.  
  
“You can tell them,” Rust says, his chest raising and falling, “that they were right. They were exactly right. That’ll make them happy. Tell the idiots that they’re right and stop staring at me like you never knew me.”  
  
“But –“  
  
“Doesn’t mean that I don’t like women, too,” Rust says and then steps away from Marty.  
  
Marty has a mad urge to grab his shirt and keep him close, but of course he doesn’t do that. He’s not completely crazy yet. And Rust’s shirt is probably damp with sweat. Marty’s surely is.  
  
“It’s none of their damn business,” he says. Rust ignores him, lights a cigarette and turns to look at the fields, probably thinking about a paradox of existence or something. Never knew how to enjoy a fine scenery.  
  
Marty takes a deep breath. What’s the worst that could happen? Technically, Rust could probably kill him, but he’s pretty sure Rust isn’t going to.  
  
“But it’s not like you’re into me or something,” he says, his voice as light as he can make it.  
  
Rust glances at him quickly, doesn’t linger for a second. “Of course not.”  
  
“Alright,” Marty says. “So I thought.”  
  
Rust doesn’t say anything else until they’re back at the station, and even then it’s vague complaining about something Marty already has under control. Marty can’t even make himself care at that point. It's been a long day, yeah, driving all the way back with Rust who didn’t talk to him or look at him. He’s not disappointed or anything, but it’s been a long day.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He starts wondering if Rust is seeing someone. Well, Rust probably isn’t dating or anything, and Marty isn’t even sure if men _do_ that, but it’s certainly possible that Rust is getting laid, isn’t it? Marty’s away often enough for him to have chances. And sometimes he goes for a drive and is away for half a night, and Marty doesn’t know what he’s up to, but he starts looking for signs. If Rust is going away to fuck some man, surely Marty should be able to figure that out.  
  
It takes him a few weeks to realize he doesn’t have a fucking clue what those signs would be. A manly lovebite on Rust’s neck? A smile? He almost laughs.  
  
But one night, he’s spent the evening at home and Rust’s been away, and for some reason he just hasn’t been able to fall asleep. He’s opened the windows but the air coming through them is like a warm wet cloth on the face, and he lays awake on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. Rust is clearly trying to be very quiet, but Marty’s listening, so he can hear the door closing, the soft somewhat unsteady steps on the floor, the sound of water running from the kitchen tap. It’s fucking two o’clock.  
  
He thinks about putting on a t-shirt, but what’s the point?  
  
“Rust,” he says, stopping at the doorway and looking at the man. Not his smoothest opening, but it does the job. Rust empties the glass of water he’s got in his hand and straightens his back.  
  
“Thought you were asleep.”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “Couldn’t sleep. Where were you?”  
  
Rust sighs, takes the chair and sits down in it, his legs sprawled. He looks tired but not high.  
  
“I know you don’t owe me anything,” Marty says, “I’m just asking because I’m… kind of worried sometimes, and also… we’re friends, Rust.”  
  
Rust nods. “Yeah.”  
  
“And I’m curious, too.”  
  
“What’s there curious to be about?” Rust asks, narrowing his eyes.  
  
“Well, I thought,” Marty says, even though he kind of already knows he’s being an idiot, “that maybe you’re seeing someone.”  
  
Rust just stares at him.  
  
“Maybe not.”  
  
“You think,” Rust says, “now that you know for a fact that I’m a faggot, you think I’m slipping away from you to do what exactly? To have a nice shag with god knows who?”  
  
“No,” Marty says and then bites his lip. He’s well aware that Rust sees through bullshit like other people see through windows. “Sorry. I don’t know why I keep bringing it up.”  
  
“Yeah, me neither,” Rust says, sounding genuinely curious for a moment. Then he crosses his arms over his chest. “I just like it. Driving. The silence.”  
  
“You don’t listen to the radio?”  
  
“Makes me think that I’m going somewhere. Like my life isn’t one big circle.”  
  
Marty takes the closest chair, drags it closer and sits down. “You could talk to me, you know.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“I don’t know. You. That you think it’s all one big circle.”  
  
“I talk about things like that all the time. Just not…”  
  
“Yeah, I know. But you can.” He looks at Rust for a few seconds. It’s honestly unfair that Rust can look so pretty when he’s clearly tired as hell. “I know that I don’t have a fucking clue about what you’ve gone through.”  
  
“Marty –“  
  
“Can’t even imagine it. Can’t imagine the pain. Losing your kid… I’m not going to pretend that I understand. But we’re friends, Rust.”  
  
Rust clears his throat. “Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Rust nods.  
  
“So, what I think that means,” Marty says, “I _think_ that means that friends can tell each other things even though they know that the other one doesn’t know a shit about it.”  
  
“Sounds about right,” Rust says slowly. “Haven’t got much experience with friends.”  
  
“Well, you’ve got me now.”  
  
“Okay,” Rust says. He sounds like Marty’s given him something, which is fucking absurd, because Rust knew that they’re friends. He already knew that. He doesn’t have to look like it’s a tiny miracle, and besides, the look in his eyes is doing weird things for Marty.  
  
He gets up from the chair, pats Rust on the shoulder and says something about trying to sleep. But when he’s about to go to his own room, he hears Rust clearing his throat.  
  
He turns back to Rust.  
  
“You’re looking at me like you’re wondering if I want to sleep with you or something,” Rust says.  
  
Marty blinks. “God, no, I…”  
  
“I just need you to know,” Rust says, “that whatever you’re worried of, you don’t need to.”  
  
Marty doesn’t know what’s showing on his face, but it must be something, because Rust’s looking at him as if he’s a book Rust’s trying to make sense of.  
  
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Rust says, “I just… Don’t fucking worry about me, man.”  
  
“I’m not worrying,” Marty says. He sounds a little breathless, but what the hell. He’s got to say this. “I’ve been staring at you because I’m curious and because I asked you about it fucking twice and couldn’t make sense of what you said to me. I’m not _worried._ That’s just goddamn absurd, Rust.”  
  
Rust stares at him. Goddamn, he wants to walk to the man and pet his hair or something.  
  
“You aren’t as scary as you think you are,” he says, and Rust has the nerve to look relieved.  
  
Marty goes to sleep after that. The room doesn’t feel so awfully hot anymore. He closes his eyes and listens through the walls while Rust goes to the bathroom and starts brushing his teeth.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He starts buying Rust things. Just simple things, things that are missing: a frying pan, a hand towel, milk when they run out, curtains, a screwdriver because one of the kitchen cupboards has a loose handle and he left his toolbox in Maggie’s and can’t find Rust’s. Rust doesn’t say anything, so he probably doesn’t mind. God knows that man doesn’t hold back from pointing out what’s wrong in this world. Marty hangs the curtains and they look pretty nice, yeah, he’s probably got more eye for these things than he thought he did. Definitely more than Rust. And there’s no reason why this place shouldn’t’ look like a home even though Rust’s living here alone.  
  
One day, he’s at Walmart and there’re socks on sale. Rust probably has larger feet than him, so he buys two pairs of his size and two of what he supposes is Rust’s. At home, Rust’s sitting on the mattress, reading something Marty doesn’t want to hear about. He throws the socks at Rust and they hit the man on the arm. Rust picks the socks up.  
  
“What the hell?”  
  
“Black isn’t your color? Sorry, my bad.”  
  
“No, I…” Rust pauses and stands up. Marty’s already putting the groceries to the fridge so he’s got his back turned to Rust, but he can hear the movement. He’s pretty accustomed to listening to Rust move in the flat by now. “What the hell, Marty? Why’re you buying me socks?”  
  
“They’re just socks, man.”  
  
Rust snorts. “Yeah. And curtains and screwdrivers.”  
  
Marty puts the last milk box to the fridge and then turns to Rust, who’s leaning his palms against the counters now. It’s not clear if that’s supposed to make him look intimidating or the opposite. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he looks like. He’s got a hint of stubble on his chin, but then again, he barely slept at all last night. Marty listened to him pacing a circle in his room.  
  
“I thought,” Marty says, pushing his hands to the pockets, “that you’d tell me if you didn’t like curtains and screwdrivers.”  
  
Rust chews on his lower lip, his eyes moving back and forth on Marty’s face. It looks odd, looks like he doesn’t know what he wants to say. First time for everything. “Who doesn’t like screwdrivers?” Rust says finally, his face all serious. Marty smiles at it anyway. “But it seems like maybe one day you’re going to buy my flowers.”  
  
Marty clears his throat. Yeah, he kind of deserved that. But if they’re having an argument here, he sure as hell isn’t going to let Rust win. “You want flowers?”  
  
Rust stares at him, narrowing his eyes.  
  
“What kind of flowers?” Marty asks, rolling up his sleeves. “Not roses, I suppose?”  
  
Rust sighs and takes a step back, straightens himself, swaying just a little. Like a flagpole in the wind. He's so tall.  
  
Marty blinks.  
  
“Marty,” Rust says, and now he only sounds tired, “what the fuck is going on?”  
  
Marty opens the fridge door again, but the funny thing is, he seems to have forgotten to buy beer. He takes a box of milk and pours some in a glass. Then he sits down. Rust looks like he really wants to know. And Marty kind of wants, too. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Should I prepare myself for,” Rust pauses and sits down, a few feet away from Marty, “I don’t know, flowers?”  
  
“Well,” Marty says, “I could get them from Walmart, if you like.”  
  
“You don’t need to court me.”  
  
“I’m not… goddamn, Rust.”  
  
“Then what’re you doing? _Socks_ , Marty? Really?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He takes a sip of his milk. Rust is looking at him with a quiet look on his face, maybe a little sad, too, but then again, Rust always looks a little sad if you look at him carefully. “I’m not used to living alone, Rust. And you’re always there.”  
  
Rust blinks. Well, that kind of made sense, so it’s odd that Marty feels like he was lying.  
  
“Really?” Rust says.  
  
“No,” Marty says, “no, goddamn, that’s not… no one would buy you sucks only because you’re around, Rust, you aren’t the kind of a person other people buy socks. You are…”  
  
“What, exactly?” Rust asks, tilting his head to the side.  
  
It's getting a bit difficult to look him in the eyes, so Marty looks at his glass of milk instead. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”  
  
Rust lets out a sharp breath. “Bloody hell, Marty –“  
  
“I don’t know what’s going on in my head, man, sorry, it’s just… maybe I’m just a curious bastard.”  
  
“Maybe you are.”  
  
But that sounds wrong, too. “No, it’s not that. Rust, I think you are…” Marty puts the glass of milk onto the counter. His hands don’t feel exactly steady. “I don’t know what you are. People around here, they’re easy to figure out. And you’re just _impossible._ You’re brilliant, alright, you’re fucking clever, and also I feel like if I opened your brain, it’d be a huge mess of things I never knew existed. And besides that, you’ve got to look so damn pretty. It’s just… a bit too much. It’s too much, Rust.”  
  
“I’ve got to look what?”  
  
Marty breathes out. Fuck, he’s tired. “Pretty. You look pretty.”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says, but now he sounds slightly amused. It’s impossible tell if that’s genuine or to distract Marty from the conversation they were having.  
  
“I think you look very good, Rust,” Marty says, just in case Rust is going to start talking some philosophical nonsense again. “But I won’t buy you more socks if that’s what you want.”  
  
“No, it’s alright,” Rust says. “I need socks. And you got my size right.”  
  
Marty grins.  
  
“Don’t look so happy about it, you bastard. You see me every day.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’ve been checking out your feet.”  
  
“No, you’ve been checking out my other bits,” Rust says, leaning back in his chair. Thank god he doesn’t seem to be waiting for Marty’s answer to _that._ “I just would like to know what the deal is here, Marty. What you want of me.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Rust doesn’t look surprised at all. “Maybe you should think about it, then.”  
  
“You said you wouldn’t be interested,” Marty says before he can stop himself. Then he grabs the glass of milk with two hands and empties it. When he dares to look at Rust again, Rust’s tilted his head to the side and is watching Marty as if Marty’s a suspect he wants to figure out.  
  
Marty shifts in his chair.  
  
“ _You_ said you wouldn’t be interested,” Rust says, “and you’ve been acting weird ever since you found out that I’m not as straight as you think all the people you know are. I’m not interested in trying to make something happen that obviously isn’t going to happen.”  
  
“How obviously?” Marty asks, his mouth dry as hell even though he just emptied a glass of milk.  
  
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Rust says.  
  
What the hell, then. “You’re a little bit wrong, I think. Or at least… I think you’re a very good-looking man and maybe a genius of some sort and… Don’t look like that, obviously you’re also the worst fucking asshole I’ve ever worked with. But, yeah. I want to buy you socks. Bloody hell, Rust, I don’t know what I’m doing here, can’t you just help me out?”  
  
“Probably not,” Rust says slowly, “because I think the main problem here is that you don’t have a fucking clue what you want. Or if you have, you can’t make yourself say it.”  
  
“What do you want me to say? That I want to fuck you?” Oh, god. Oh, shit. Oh, fucking… Marty takes a deep breath and then another and it doesn’t help at all, but at least he’s a little bit angry at Rust now, so that helps. The bastard didn’t have to make him say it aloud. He stands up and goes to the fridge. He needs more milk.  
  
“If you’re just curious about what it feels like, you’re going to have to find someone else to try it with,” Rust says perfectly calmly, the bastard.  
  
“No, I want you,” Marty says. He doesn’t think he can pour milk in the glass now, so he gives up on that and turns back to Rust. “Only you. I’m not interested in anyone else, I mean, other men, hell no.”  
  
“I didn’t know I was so special,” Rust says.  
  
“That’s bullshit,” Marty says, “you _knew._ ”  
  
Rust smiles just a little but it makes all the difference.  
  
“I don’t know what I want,” Marty says quickly before he runs out of goddamn nerve. “I don’t know if it's… I don’t know if I want to… fuck, that seems very… very difficult, Rust. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying here, I just… I like you.”  
  
“This may come as a shock to you,” Rust says slowly, “but I like you too, Marty.”  
  
“Great,” Marty says. “Great, that’s… What’re we going to do?”  
  
“Nothing,” Rust says. “We’re going to do nothing until you figure out what it is that you want of me. And then we’ll think about it. And stop drinking milk, it’s for the coffee. And I like the curtains. They’re nice.”  
  
Marty nods. Then he nods again. “I should eat something. Can I –“  
  
“Go ahead,” Rust says, stands up and walks to his mattress. “I’ll be here, reading this book about –“  
  
“For the love of god, don’t tell me about it,” Marty says and starts making a sandwich. His hands are a little shaky but otherwise he’s alright.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Rust,” Marty says a few days later, late in the afternoon, when they’re in the car.  
  
“Marty,” Rust says, sounding totally uninterested. That’s comforting.  
  
“What could we do, exactly? Instead of…”  
  
“Instead of fucking,” Rust says, and Marty wants to kiss him for not pretending he didn’t know what Marty was talking about. Well, maybe not _kiss_ but…  
  
Shit, he wants to kiss Rust. “Yeah,” he says instead.  
  
“Well,” Rust says, looking through the side window. “I guess a handjob might be a good start.”  
  
“A –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Just like that?”  
  
“It’s a pretty simple procedure, yeah.”  
  
“Yeah, but –“  
  
“Not exciting enough for your curiosity?”  
  
“No,” Marty says and sighs, “ _no,_ it is, but I mean… surely it’s not all that your lot do.”  
  
“ _My lot_ ,” Rust says. “I don’t know, Marty. I should read a few books about it.”  
  
“I’m being serious here.”  
  
“Well, let me ask you, what is it that you straight people do in bed?”  
  
Marty bites his lip. “Alright, I got the point. I was just trying to ask what you… what you want, I suppose.”  
  
“Well,” Rust says and glances at him, “I’m not very picky when it comes to sex. Not when I like the person. Or don’t like them but want to fuck them anyway. So, if you’re asking what you and me… what we might do, I really think it comes down to what you want, and then we can negotiate.”  
  
“Negotiate –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We’d have to talk about it.”  
  
Rust snorts at that. “We _are_ talking about it, Marty.”  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says slowly, “but this is vague, this is just… philosophical talk.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Rust says and turns to him. He keeps his eyes on the road, but his collar feels a bit tight suddenly. “I think we should start with jerking each other off, something like that. Hand stuff. It’ll be easy enough for you. But I suppose there’s very little stuff that I wouldn’t be willing to try at least once, if you asked. If you want me to suck you off, I’m willing to do that. In a right situation. And the other way around is fine with me, of course, but I suppose you’d feel a bit uneasy about having my cock in your mouth, am I right? And yeah, I know you’re wondering who’s going to take it up in the ass, since that’s what the idiots like you are always wondering about. So, let me just tell you that’s on the table, too. But it’s not everything, Marty, it’s not all that two men can do to each other if they want to have sex.”  
  
“Goddamn.”  
  
“Too much?”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “No. It’s just… let me breathe for a moment.”  
  
“Go ahead,” Rust says, “I’m more than willing to just sit here silently. You started this, Marty.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, don’t you ever blame it on me.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
Rust is quiet for maybe three seconds. “Considering that you’ve been buying me stuff, I suppose you might want to kiss me as well. So, if it’s like that, well, you can. I just want you to know that.”  
  
Marty licks his lips. “Okay.”  
  
“No reason why it’d need to be just sex.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“But I don’t like roses.”  
  
“Noted,” Marty says.  
  
Rust stays silent for a moment and then turns on the radio. It plays country music. Rust grunts at it but doesn’t switch the station.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Marty buys a houseplant and puts it on the kitchen table. Rust has gone out for a jog, so Marty cooks pasta and then sits there, eating as slowly as he can and staring at the plant. He doesn’t know what type of a plant it is. It’s green, though.  
  
When Rust comes home, he glances at Marty and at the plant and then goes to the bathroom without saying a word. Marty listens to him taking the shower. It seems to take ages, but finally Rust comes out with a towel hanging on his hips, walks to the wardrobe, turns his back to Marty and drops the towel to put on a clean pair of boxers. Just like that. Right in front of Marty’s face, even though Marty’s got to admit that it’s partly his fault, because he’s staring. He blinks and tries to eat his pasta, but it’s gone cold, and the fork clangs against the plate. Rust doesn’t even flinch. God, Marty likes him.  
  
“I made pasta,” Marty says.  
  
Rust puts on a tank top. “I noticed.”  
  
“There’s enough for you. And it’s pretty decent, I think.”  
  
“Thanks,” Rust says and walks to the kitchen, to Marty. He smells of soap. His hair is wet and clinging to his forehead. “What?”  
  
“Nothing. I just… Your hair…”  
  
“You think I look funny or something?” Rust asks, his face perfectly serious, but he’s smiling at Marty, Marty can tell.  
  
“A little, man, yeah. But in a good way.”  
  
“This is cold,” Rust says about the pasta but fills his plate anyway.  
  
“Well, you took your time. How was it?”  
  
“Running? Alright.”  
  
“I haven’t run much since high school.”  
  
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Rust says, glancing at him, “in our line of work.”  
  
“You’re saying that I’m getting fat or something?”  
  
Rust actually smiles at that. “No. I’m not saying that.”  
  
“You asshole.”  
  
“I see that you bought me flowers,” Rust says, shoving Marty’s pasta into his mouth like he’s not eaten in weeks.  
  
“A houseplant. I bought you a houseplant. It’s not romantic.”  
  
“Seems pretty romantic to me.”  
  
“Well,” Marty says, watching him, “I suppose I had to start with something.”  
  
“You started with the screwdriver.”  
  
“I hope this is a little bit more romantic,” Marty says, pushing the houseplant a little at Rust’s direction. Rust doesn’t roll his eyes. Rarely does, actually, probably because if he started doing that, he’d have to do it all the time. His eyes would pop out of his head eventually.  
  
“What’re you laughing at?”  
  
“Nothing, man,” Marty says. “How’s the pasta? Alright?”  
  
Rust glances at him. “It’s good, Marty.”  
  
“Great.” He clears his throat. “So, I spoke with Maggie. On the phone. I’m not exactly sure if we’re going to get back together. It’s almost like she doesn’t want me back.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Don’t be an asshole about it,” he says, even though Rust wasn’t being an asshole and they both know that. “I just didn’t want you to feel that you’d be my mistress or something. Since I’m buying you flowers now.”  
  
“It’s a houseplant, Marty,” Rust says, but he sounds kind of glad in his own unhappy way.  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says, and then he starts talking about other things: their job, the weather, the game on the television tonight. Rust looks like he doesn’t give a shit about anything Marty says, so everything is like it should be. Rust eats all the pasta, and once in a while Marty catches him looking at the plant with a frown on his forehead. His hair isn’t wet anymore but it’s a mess. Marty kind of wants to push his fingers through it but doesn’t. And yeah, there’s something oddly comforting in courting someone who’d be more than able to put him in a box with his bare hands.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He catches Rust watering the plant more than once. He doesn’t say anything, only watches Rust doing it with nothing on except boxers and a tank top, his absurdly nice arms perfectly on sight, his face serious as if he’s fully focused on the task.  
  
“Stop smiling,” he says to Marty without looking away from the plant.  
  
“I wasn’t smiling,” Marty says but can’t stop smiling.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Lately, he’s been thinking a lot about kissing Rust. He supposes that’s not a surprise, considering all the discussions they’ve had around the subject. He hasn’t done anything about it, though, and to be perfectly honest, he’s not sure what to do about it. He can’t just go and kiss Rust, right? And it doesn’t seem like Rust is going to just come and kiss him, either. And he already bought Rust a houseplant, which is still alive, by the way. That must be a good sing.  
  
At the station, he sometimes realizes he’s been staring at Rust and not whatever is going on his job. It’s a burden to have a desk with a straight view at a man who looks like that. Sometimes it happens that Rust catches him staring and looks a little frustrated about it but never says anything. Well, it’s not like Rust _could_ say anything, not at work, where there’s always someone else around. But he could say something about it at home. He could say _, Marty, for fuck’s sake, stop staring at me like you want to kiss me._ And he doesn’t.  
  
But then one night, Marty’s been brushing his teeth in the bathroom, the door unlocked because what’s the risk, that Rust is going to walk in and see what color his toothbrush is? They keep their toothbrushes in the same mug anyway. Then it just happens that Rust walks in and stops abruptly, blinks at the cold bathroom light, and doesn’t go away like he normally would.  
  
Marty straightens his back. “I’m brushing my teeth, man,” he says, only it comes out a bit blurred, because he’s brushing his teeth.  
  
Rust doesn’t say anything to that, only leans his palm against the sink and fucking _stays there._ Marty doesn’t mind, not exactly. Maybe Rust is in a hurry to take a piss or something. And he’s not wearing a shirt which is kind of nice, because he usually does even at home. So, Marty takes his time, spits in the sink and rinses the toothbrush, puts it away, and then doesn’t know what to do. He could walk past Rust and go to sleep like he intended to.  
  
“What’re you up to?” Rust asks, and there’s a sharp edge in his voice.  
  
Marty leans his palm against the sink as well, facing Rust. “Might take a piss.”  
  
“You just did.”  
  
He bites his lip. “Okay, that’s true.”  
  
“So,” Rust says.  
  
“So,” Marty says. He hopes it’s clear that he’s not going to go anywhere, unless Rust wants him to. But Rust is looking at his face as if he’s a mystery and there might be clues there. Goddamn. “Thought you might kiss me, man.”  
  
Rust blinks at that. Thank god, he’s nervous, too. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No reason why you couldn’t do it.”  
  
“I’ve never done it before,” Marty reminds him.  
  
“Kissed anyone?” Rust bites his lip. “Is that what happened to your marriage, then?”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “You fucking asshole. You –“ And he kind of wants to grab Rust’s shirt, but Rust isn’t wearing one, so he just presses the flat of his palm against the bare skin on Rust’s chest. It’s odd. He _knows_ Rust’s body, he’s around Rust all the time, and still touching him feels like a completely different thing.  
  
“It’s not that different,” Rust says in a quiet voice.  
  
“Shut up,” Marty says and puts his other hand on the back of Rust’s neck. Rust’s too tall. There’s no way they can kiss. And Marty’s not going to fucking stand on his heels, fuck no. That just doesn’t make sense. Maybe this whole thing is madness, maybe he’s finally lost his mind and that’s why he thinks that he and Rust, that _he and Rust_ would make a good… couple. Something like that.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Rust says, takes Marty’s face in between his hands and kisses him.  
  
_It's not that different_ , what kind of a bullshit was that? It is different. It’s definitely different. No one else in this fucking world could kiss him like Rust does. And he can’t _think,_ no, he kisses back with all his best tricks and it seems that Rust’s laughing at him, but nicely, like he actually likes Marty, which he probably does, because they’re doing this. They’re kissing. They’re actually kissing, and Rust’s hands are on Marty’s shoulders now, Rust’s thumbs are pressing gently against his throat, and he wants more, he wants everything. He didn’t think he’d be this kind of a man but he’s exactly this kind of a man, and he runs his palms up and down on Rust’s arms and is pretty sure Rust’s smiling at him again.  
  
Then Rust grabs his hips, and it’s a surprise but alright, it’s not that bad, especially when Rust pushes him a little and settles them so that Marty’s pressed in between the sink and Rust’s body. He didn’t expect to like something like this but… yeah.  
  
“So,” Rust says against Marty’s mouth, and he sounds fucking breathless, “this alright for now?”  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Marty says, because he can feel Rust’s cock pressing against his hip through the fabric. He shoves his hand into Rust’s boxers and Rust makes this noise as if he’s breaking, as if Marty’s broken him somehow, and it’s amazing.  
  
Marty can’t really concentrate on two things at time, so he gives up on the kissing and just kind of breathes against Rust’s throat which is nice, too, because Rust tastes good. Who would’ve known? He doesn’t manage to get rid of Rust’s boxers by himself, but Rust helps a little and then tugs Marty’s boxers out of the way, too, so that’s it. Marty’s got a hand on Rust’s dick and Rust’s got a hand on his and it’s simple enough, yeah, except it isn’t. Rust’s saying some stupid shit Marty can’t bother to listen to at this moment, but he listens to Rust’s voice which is like glass that’s about to break, something like that, something he never expected to hear. And _he’s_ doing that for Rust. _He’s_ the one with his hand on Rust’s cock. _He’s_ going to make Rust come, soon enough, because he doesn’t have fucking patience, not at all. Not this time. But they _are_ going to do this again, he’s sure of it, Rust is going to want him, and there’s no way he wouldn’t want Rust, no way, because who wouldn’t, who in their right mind wouldn’t want Rust -  
  
Rust comes first, maybe because Marty wasn’t trying to make him last, not at all, couldn’t even think about it. Rust’s rhythm falters a little after that, but his hand is still on Marty’s dick, and he keeps tugging, and Marty can’t keep his eyes open but can’t close them either, because this is Rust. This is his Rust.  
  
“You happy with this,” Rust says, sounding like someone just jerked him off, “or do you want something else?”  
  
“I’m happy,” Marty says, and it only takes maybe twenty seconds until Rust finishes him with precision, like he always knew what to do to Marty.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Marty says, “should we talk about it?”  
  
Rust glances at him. It’s the same evening, they’re in Rust’s room and Marty thinks he’s breathing a little too hard still even though he just came. In Rust’s hand. Because they had sex. He and Rust. That _happened._ “Do you want to?”  
  
“Talk about it? Fuck no.” He licks his lips. “Kind of. Or, I mean… I hear that it’s healthy to talk about things, like, in a relationship, because otherwise things just go… worse. So, maybe we should.”  
  
“This is a relationship, then.”  
  
Goddamn. “Goddamn, Rust.”  
  
“We can talk,” Rust says. He looks too damn calm. Barely half an hour ago, he finished Marty off like he had always know how he would do it once he’d get a chance. Marty knows he can read people, alright, but this is _a lot._ It’s a lot to have this feeling that maybe Rust knows things about him that he doesn’t. Or maybe Rust’s just guessing, maybe it’s just pure luck.  
  
“Can we do it again?”  
  
Rust glances down Marty’s body, the fucking bastard. “Not in a few hours, I think.”  
  
“I didn’t mean -,” Marty says, determined to drop it, but he just can’t. “I could get it up again, you know.”  
  
“Really?” Rust asks, fixing his eyes on the book he’s got in his lap.  
  
“Yeah, if you…” _Shit._ “I didn’t mean that at all. I meant, I don’t know, was it good? Are we going to do it again? Is this a thing now?”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says slowly but looks at him at least, “stop stressing about it. I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
He takes a deep breath and then another. “A relationship, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says.  
  
Marty rubs his forehead. The plant he bought Rust is still there, on the kitchen counter, very much alive. Maybe even greener than when Marty got it. Rust doesn’t let him water it, says he’s going to do it wrong. “What should I call you, then? _Babe?”_  
  
“If you call me _babe_ ,” Rust says, “I’m going to find a cold case and get you convicted of a murder.”  
  
Marty stares at the houseplant. Fucking hell, he’s going to start calling Rust _babe._ “Alright. But there’s just one thing I’m wondering.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“If we’re in a relationship,” Marty says, “does that mean that I can just come over and kiss you?”  
  
Rust puts the book away. Marty glances at his fingers. So, yeah, there might be a few things he’s going to want to do at Rust’s fingers. “You going to want to kiss me in public?”  
  
“No, man,” Marty says, blinking. “I don’t think so. The boys would…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“They’d be confused.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Unless you want…”  
  
“No,” Rust says, “no, I’m alright with this thing, whatever it is, I’m alright if it stays at home. You don’t need to hold my hand when we go shopping.”  
  
“Rust, we never go shopping.”  
  
Rust looks through the window.  
  
“What about now?” Marty asks, even though his heart is suddenly beating like crazy. “Can I just come over and kiss you?”  
  
“You just kissed me.”  
  
“Yeah, but maybe I want to try again.”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says in a quiet voice, “you were good at it.”  
  
“But you were smiling at me.”  
  
“Yeah, because you were trying to seduce me or something. Trying to show off. I’m a sure thing, Marty.”  
  
Marty takes a deep breath. That’s obviously a lie, Rust hasn’t been a sure thing once in his life, not about anything. But maybe this is their version of pillow talk. Marty walks to him slowly, sits next to him on the mattress and puts a hand on his lower back. He can feel Rust breathing in and out, he can feel the warm skin through the fabric.  
  
“Can we kiss?”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says and turns to face him. Their shoulders are brushing against each other.  
  
“You or me,” Marty says, staring at Rust’s mouth.  
  
“Well, I guess I’m going to have to do it,” Rust says in a hoarse voice, “because you don’t have the guts to start.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Marty says, leans closer and kisses him.  
  
He sleeps in Rust’s bed that night. Rust doesn’t sleep, only reads his book for a while with nothing but a flashlight and then sits there, in the dark. Every time Marty wakes up, Rust is by his side, not sleeping, not talking either, not doing anything except one time, he has fingers in Marty’s hair, petting him. Marty closes his eyes and falls asleep again.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The next time he sees Maggie and the girls, Maggie takes one glance at him and asks him what’s going on. He says nothing’s going on, it’s just Rust. Maggie watches him carefully for the rest of the evening, but she doesn’t seem angry, only sad and a little surprised. But he supposes breaking up is like that.  
  
He goes home to Rust, and Rust kisses him and undresses him. They take their time with hands on each other’s dicks, but then Rust pulls his hand away and kisses his way down Marty’s chest. It’s pretty clear where this is going, and Marty feels like he should object, but he can’t make himself say it, and then Rust’s got his fingers on Marty’s dick again, on his balls, too, wandering a little, like Rust’s trying to see how much he’ll take. He can feel Rust’s warm breaths on the crook of his thigh, and Rust’s fingers touching behind his balls so lightly it barely happens. It barely happens. He closes his eyes and pushes his fingers into Rust’s hair, and then he almost kicks Rust in the chest when the man takes Marty’s dick in his mouth.  
  
“Sorry, man,” he says, “sorry, that wasn’t…”  
  
Rust pulls back with a sound that’s just fucking _absurd._ “Shut up, Marty.”  
  
“I didn’t mean to kick you, babe,” Marty says, even though he’s the one who’s a wreck right now and they both know it.  
  
“I’ll bite your dick off,” Rust says and gets back to it.  
  
There’s very little that Marty can think about when his dick is in Rust’s mouth. He can think about Rust but only just about. And he can think about not wanting to come in Rust’s mouth, because Rust wouldn’t want that, no, he wouldn’t want Marty to… It’d be too much, it’d be… But Rust’s holding him down by the hips now, his hands firm and strong and oh, god, he’s been thinking about Rust’s fingers for _ages_ now, for weeks at least, and he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe Rust’s sucking him off, and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to return the favor, no, maybe, _no_ , he can’t, but he thinks Rust knows that already. Rust knows him better than anyone. Rust fucking knows him better than himself, which is just fucking _unfair_ , he can’t bear it, and he can’t breathe either.  
  
He says something that’s supposed to be a warning and tries to pull off, but Rust’s hands keep him in place. _Rust’s hand._ Oh, shit, it’s almost like he’s in love. Like he’s -  
  
He comes in Rust’s mouth and Rust spits on the floor, which is the fucking only thing that makes sense right now.

  
“I tried to warn you,” he says, his fingers still wrapped in Rust’s hair. He hopes he didn’t pull too hard.  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says, “you weren’t very subtle about that.”  
  
“You didn’t have to –“  
  
“You think I’m doing something I don’t really want with you?” Rusts asks and collapses on the mattress next to Marty. The skin around his mouth is red. Marty can’t stop staring at him, and he glances at Marty, takes his cock in his hand and starts tugging with what looks like a very clear intent.  
  
“Hey,” Marty says, “Rust, I should probably do that, I –“  
  
“This’ll just take a second,” Rust says, closing his eyes.  
  
Marty waits for two seconds and then grabs Rust’s wrist. Rust stops.  
  
“I want to get off,” he says, but his voice sounds raw. Marty wants to kiss him. “You’re going to be too slow about it.”  
  
“Show me, then,” Marty says and manages to get his hand on Rust’s cock. Rust bites his lip and then covers Marty’s hand with his own.  
  
Rust was right. It only takes a second. And afterwards, Rust looks exhausted and Marty wants to stare at him, only he’s about to fall asleep. He wraps his arm around Rust’s waist and then freezes for a second, but Rust doesn’t seem to have violent thoughts about that. Rust’s skin feels warm and kind of fragile like any human’s. Any kind of a blade, a kitchen knife or something, could cut through it. Marty’s fingernails probably could, if he really tried. Rust looks so tough sometimes, so unbreakable. And still, there’s all this skin, right under Marty’s hands.  
  
“You like to cuddle,” Rust says. “I should’ve known.”  
  
“You don’t.”  
  
Rust’s quiet for a moment. “I used to. But that was a long time ago.”  
  
“Well,” Marty says and kisses his neck, “you’re doing it for me now.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
The next time the boys at the station call Rust a faggot behind his back, Marty wants to tell them to fucking shut up but doesn’t trust his voice. He takes his cup of coffee and just walks out. Rust finds him in the front yard and doesn’t say anything, only pats him on the shoulder and then they go back.  
  
Once or twice he realizes he’s standing too close to Rust, like they’re lovers or something. He waits for someone to notice but no one does. He’s pretty sure they would say something if they were thinking about it. Two cops fucking – even though they aren’t exactly _fucking_ , not yet at least – that kind of thing is just impossible to ignore in a place like this. Maybe things are changing elsewhere, but here… no. Fuck no.  
  
But the next time Steve says something about a faggot when Rust’s not around, Marty turns so quickly he kicks a chair onto the floor at the process. Everyone stares at him and he tells them he doesn’t want to hear about it anymore. Not a fucking word. Rust’s the most competent asshole around here and they all know that, so they can just shut about it and deal with it. That’s what he tells them and then he realizes Rust’s standing in the doorway.  
  
At home, Rust kisses him and then, when Rust’s got a hand on Marty’s cock and the other fondling him behind his balls, just the lightest of touches brushing against his arsehole, he asks what it was about at the station.  
  
“Nothing,” Marty says, but he can’t think. “Nothing. Fucking hell, Rust, just –“  
  
“They calling me a faggot again?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. I told them not to. Now can you just –“  
  
But neither one of Rust’s hands is moving now. He doesn’t pull them away, either, so all Marty can do is just to stand there, pressed against the wall in the hallway, because this is where they started kissing, this, barely inside the flat. He’s losing his fucking mind. He’s in love with this man and he can’t handle it.  
  
“Rust…”  
  
“You don’t need to fight that battle for me,” Rust says. He sounds completely coherent. Marty wants to kill him and also some other things.  
  
“Rust, you’re my man. Of course I’m going to… _what’s that?_ ”  
  
“My finger,” Rust says, the smug bastard. “Like it?”  
  
“What did I say –,” Marty says and tries to breathe, “- about fingers in my ass?”  
  
“Nothing,” Rust says. “You said nothing about it. So, tell me now.”  
  
Marty clears his throat. “It’s alright. It’s alright, just… go slowly. And this doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you…”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says and shifts closer to him. He leans against the wall, and Rust goes back to kissing his throat and jerking him off and kind of pushing the tip of his finger very slowly through the rim of Marty’s arsehole. Just like he asked. Just like he wanted to. And Rust fucking _listened._ And _he_ is listening to his own heartbeat now, and his own breathing, and Rust’s, and the sounds of skin on skin, and it doesn’t feel bad, doesn’t feel exactly good, either, but this is Rust, this is Rust who’s holding him, and he wants Rust to know that _of course_ he’s going to try to fight that battle for him, _of course_.  
  
“Alright?” Rust asks, leaning back a little probably to see how flushed Marty’s face is.  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says. “Don’t tell anyone.”  
  
Rust smiles at him. He smiles back.  
  
“I won’t,” Rust says, and then he changes the rhythm. Now he’s just trying to get Marty there, Marty knows that, he’s familiar with this. He can tell what Rust’s thinking by the hand on his cock. And it doesn’t take long, never does if Rust doesn’t want it to, it’s like barely a blink of an eye and then Marty’s coming, and Rust’s fingertip’s still inside him, but that’s alright. He’s alright.  
  
  
**  
  
  
One night, he wakes up alone and finds Rust outside, sitting in the grass with nothing on but his boxers and the goddamn tank top. He’s smoking. Marty sits down beside him and puts a hand on his knee, and he flinches.  
  
“I came to talk to her,” Rust says after a moment.  
  
“So,” Marty says, squeezes his knee, “does she answer?”  
  
“No. No, Marty. She’s dead.”  
  
Marty clears his throat but keeps his hand on Rust’s knee, and Rust doesn’t seem to mind.  
  
“I know I’m not talking to her, really,” Rust says. “I’m talking to myself. About her. Probably I’m talking to the version of me that I think I used to be.”  
  
“I kind of like the version you’re now,” Marty says. He hopes none of the neighbors is watching, but then again, they’re just two guys sitting at the yard in the middle of the night, barely touching.  
  
“Some people,” Rust says in a tone that sounds like the words are strangling him, “they think that it makes you better somehow when shit happens to you. And really, I think it’s just that it’s easier for them that way. It’s easier because then there’s this false promise, like, they can’t face what someone else’s going through and then they comfort themselves by saying that good things will come out of it.”  
  
“But isn’t that true,” Marty says, when Rust’s been quiet for a moment.  
  
“No,” Rust says and puts the cigarette out. “No, it isn’t. We don’t get better when we suffer. We just suffer. And sometimes it rips us out of the few things that were good in us.”  
  
“I like you a lot,” Marty says, “but sometimes you’re full of shit.” And then he kisses Rust on the cheek. Fuck the neighbors.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He asks Rust to fuck him one night in late June when he’s been drinking a little and they’re in Rust’s bed, kissing. Rust says no. He gets angry at Rust probably because he’s a bit relieved and also too drunk to just drop it and can’t stop thinking about Rust’s finger in his ass that one time. He shouts at Rust a little and Rust talks philosophy at him, which is the fucking worst thing Rust could do to him right now, and he says it many times until somehow Rust’s sitting on him, keeping him flat on his back. There’s no fucking way he can throw Rust off. Even in his drunk brain, he knows that, so he doesn’t try. He just lets Rust kiss him and jerk him off and it’s good, it’s perfect, he doesn’t have to think what he just said.  
  
Of course, Rust just can’t let it go. In the morning, they drink coffee and Rust asks him about it. He locks himself in the bathroom, so that he doesn’t have to talk about how he kind of wants to have Rust’s cock in his ass. Rust doesn’t ask again, doesn’t change anything else, kisses him easily like always and lets him sleep in his bed.  
  
He’s not sure why he’s still feeling bad about it. He tries to fix things by sucking Rust off one morning when he’s feeling brave and Rust looks like he’s not slept in a hundred years. But he can’t get anything done down there and Rust keeps fondling his hair and later says that it isn’t that easy. A warm mouth on a cock, it’s nice but doesn’t go anywhere without a little bit of technique. Marty wants to punch him in the face but doesn’t have time, because Rust catches his hand and puts it on his own dick and then uses Marty’s hand to jerk himself off, and everything’s good again.  
  
Two days later, Marty comes home from Walmart, walks straight to Rust’s room and throws a pack of condoms at him. They hit Rust on the chest.  
  
“I didn’t think you were courting me anymore,” Rust says, “babe.”  
  
“I’m not courting you,” Marty says, “I just got some supplies, _babe._ ”  
  
“You got my size wrong, babe.”  
  
“No, I didn’t, babe,” Marty says and opens the fridge door. “You should’ve told me we were out of milk.”  
  
“We weren’t.”  
  
“Great,” Marty says. He’s still got a few beers left, but he supposes there’re some things in life for which a man’s got to be sober. He walks at the table and sits down. “I want to talk to you.”  
  
Rust looks at him with a vague interest. “Yeah? About what?”  
  
“I want to try it,” he says. He sounds nervous as hell but at least he’s talking about it, so Rust’s got to give him some credit. “I want you to fuck me. I don’t know why, because the whole things seems like such a mess, and I can’t understand how it’s done, really, I just… I want to try. And I suppose that if I change my mind at some point of it, I mean, if I don’t want to go through with it at all in the end, I suppose you aren’t going to hold that against me. But yeah, that’s what the condoms are for.”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says. He knows how to sound kind when he wants to. Marty just hopes he doesn’t know how much Marty appreciates that right now. “I have condoms.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“And you suppose right. Obviously. Tell me anytime to fuck off and I will.”  
  
He nods. “Yeah, I know that.”  
  
“Good.” Rust straightens his back. “I’m a little surprised you don’t want to do it the other way around.”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “And why’s that?”  
  
“Because the assholes at the station dared you to,” Rust says.  
  
_Shit._ “What?”  
  
“Yeah. Something you talked in the bar, I think. Fifty dollars if you get me to ask for it.”  
  
Oh, fucking _hell._ “Rust –“  
  
“I know you aren’t doing all this because of it,” Rust says and makes a vague gesture at… at the houseplant Marty bought him. “But there’s a point. Maybe it’d be easier for you that way. If you want to try it at all.”  
  
“Listen,” Marty says and stands up. He _definitely_ doesn’t want to talk about this, but he needs to be sure that Rust doesn’t think he’s doing this for a goddamn _bet._ “I think I’m fucking falling in love with you, man.”  
  
He takes a ragged breath. If Rust starts about the universe now, Marty’s going to throw something at his face. Damn well he is. Something soft, probably, because he likes Rust’s face.  
  
“Alright,” Rust says and stands up.  
  
Turns out the whole thing’s just a big fucking mess. Everything’s too much. He can’t stop kissing Rust and Rust tells him to calm the fuck down but he can’t, and he doesn’t want to be on his knees and elbows, but there’s no fucking way he’s going to lie on his back while Rust’s trying to fit fingers into his ass, no way. And he doesn’t want to stop, either. He wants to see what it’s like. Rust is patient for maybe five minutes and then starts citing very cynical philosophers and it makes it better, and Marty tells him how lovely he is, because what difference does it make, at this point? He’s already on his knees and Rust’s got one hand on his back and one doing improper things to him. He can as well tell the man he loves him.  
  
Later, when they’ve given up and are lying on the bed in a tangle of damp skin and dried cum and warm breathing, Rust says he doesn’t like to talk about love. Love’s just an illusion. Love fixes nothing. Love didn’t help him save her. But he says it all very gently while he’s stroking Marty’s arm.  
  
“It’s very unfortunate that you’ve got such a big dick,” Marty says. “I don’t think we’ll ever manage to shove it in me.”  
  
“What did I say about courting me, man?” Rust says. “You don’t need to. I’m already here.”  
  
Well, the truth is it _isn’t_ that big. The next time they try, everything goes much better. They don’t end up jerking each other off in a hurry but instead, Marty comes with Rust’s cock buried deep in his ass and Rust’s fingers wrapped around his cock. He’s not exactly sure yet what the fuss is about but he’s got an idea. And it’s nice, looking at Rust’s face when the man realizes he just fucked Marty in the ass. He doesn’t look so cynical now. Marty wishes he could take a picture and tape it on the fridge door, but he kind of very much doesn’t want to move. Maybe not tomorrow, either. He’s got a feeling that he’s going to be a little stiff.  
  
“Alright?” Rust asks, when his face is back to its normal color again.  
  
“Fuck you, man,” Marty says, and Rust laughs.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I’ll come on Friday, then,” Marty says to Maggie in the phone, “for dinner.”  
  
“You should bring Rust with you,” Maggie says.  
  
So, he takes Rust with him. He thinks Rust’s nervous about it but can’t tell for sure because he’s too nervous himself. This is almost like he’s going to take his new boyfriend to meet his ex, isn’t it, which is just fucking absurd, but that’s Marty’s life now. Absurd. But good, in a very surprising way.  
  
He keeps fumbling with his tie, until Rust comes and does it for him.  
  
“Thanks,” he says.  
  
“We should go,” Rust says and pats him on the chest.  
  
They’re quiet when they drive there. Rust’s looking through the side window and Marty’s looking at him. He didn’t even look surprised when Marty asked him about the dinner, no, he looked almost like he’d been waiting for it. But then again, when the apocalypse happens, Rust’s probably going to look like he was waiting for it. The man’s just so goddamn…  
  
Marty reaches over and puts his hand on Rust’s.  
  
“You’re driving,” Rust says.  
  
“Do you think she knows about us?”  
  
“Marty,” Rust says, “she’s very clever.”  
  
“Yeah, but do you think she _knows_?”  
  
Rusts snorts. Marty pulls his hand away because yeah, he’s driving, and he doesn’t want to explain to Maggie that they got into an accident and couldn’t get to the dinner. But a moment later, Rust places his palm on Marty’s thigh, so that’s alright.  
  
They get to the house eventually – Marty’s house, or the house that’s not Marty’s house anymore. Maggie opens the door quickly enough, which is great, because Marty’s feeling like a goddamn fool for standing at his own front door with a tall dark handsome boyfriend who seems annoyingly calm about all this.  
  
“Good, you came,” Maggie says, stepping away from the door and letting them in. She’s pretty as hell. Something’s happened, maybe the dress is new. “Hi, Rust.”  
  
“Hi, Maggie,” Rust says.  
  
Marty clears his throat. “So, now that we’re all here, and yeah, thank you for inviting us, Maggie, it was very nice of you, so –“  
  
“Stop talking,” Maggie says pretty much at the same time than Rust says, “shut up, Marty.”  
  
Marty shuts up. The situation seems to be under control anyway. He follows Rust inside, hangs his coat, then the girls are there, so he forgets about this whole goddamn mess for a second. It’s almost like they’ve grown, only it can’t be more than a week than he last saw them. Macie’s talking about school and Audrey’s not talking but clings into Marty’s shoulders when he hugs her. He can’t remember why this wasn’t enough, why he messed the things with Maggie so badly, why he didn’t come home every goddamn evening to be with his girls.  
  
“Marty,” Maggie says, and then he realizes Macie’s talking about getting a pony now and all he is saying is _yeah, yeah_ , which might be interpreted in a problematic way. He changes to _no, you can’t get a pony_ , and Macie doesn’t look too shocked about that. Probably knew it was coming, a smart kid that she is.  
  
And Rust is just standing there, like a ghost in a family picture. He’s looking at the girls like _they_ are the ghosts, which they probably are, for him. Marty clears his throat. Sometimes it hits him, how badly Rust must’ve been hurt, and how he fucking hopes he’s never going to know what that feels like.  
  
“Girls,” he says, “you remember Rust, right?”  
  
He glances at Rust, Rust blinks, and the girls glance at Rust and giggle like the man’s a goddamn movie star or something. Marty knows that feeling very well.  
  
Later, he’s sitting with Maggie in the kitchen. The girls are in the living room and Rust’s there too, slouched in the armchair, watching television with them. Well, Marty supposes Rust doesn’t give a shit about the pink ponies on the screen.  
  
“I think they have a crush on him,” Maggie says.  
  
Marty shifts in his chair and stops drinking his apple juice. “What?”  
  
Maggie just smiles at him. It’s good to see her smile, makes him feel warm inside. And a little sad.  
  
“They’re too young to have crushes,” he tells her. Then he glances at the living room again. “Really?”  
  
“Well, can you blame them?” Maggie asks, her voice light and easy. “I mean, you’ve seen him.”  
  
Marty clears his throat.  
  
“Listen,” Maggie says, “I like him. He’s a mess, but he’s a different kind of a mess than you are.”  
  
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Marty asks, rubbing the side of his nose.  
  
“It means you can bring him over when you come to dinner. I don’t mind.”  
  
“You don’t mind.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Marty takes a deep breath, looks at Rust in the living room, then looks at Maggie again. “We aren’t going to get back together, are we?”  
  
“No,” Maggie says like it’s a sure thing.  
  
“Was it… so bad?”  
  
“No,” Maggie says, “just, we don’t fit anymore, Marty. It’s like there’s this puzzle and the pieces won’t go together, and we tried to make them fit for a long time and they only got more broken. I don’t want to try anymore. It doesn’t help.”  
  
Marty swallows. “I didn’t mean that to happen.”  
  
“I know,” Maggie says and pours him more apple juice. Then she glances at Rust. “Maybe you’ve got more luck with someone else.”  
  
“Maybe I’ll be better.”  
  
“Maybe someone else will be better at dealing with your bullshit,” Maggie says in her nicest tone, and Marty wants to kiss her, wants to kiss her and talk her into trying again, one more time, for the kids. But the kids are as alright as kids can be, sitting in the living room with daddy’s new boyfriend, even though they don’t know that, thank god. And Rust probably isn’t alright but Marty’s going to deal with that later, at home, yeah, he’s going to kiss Rust and make him forget his own ghost, if only for a second. And Maggie’s alright, beautiful and strong as ever, and Marty’s alright, too.  
  
They stay until it’s the time for the girls to go to bed, so that Marty can tell them good night. When he closes the door to the girls’ bedroom and backs away, Rust’s already at the front door, talking to Maggie about something. Marty clears his throat. Maggie hugs Rust but not him, and everything’s a little crooked but not in a bad way. He can deal with this. They walk to the car, he and Rust, and they drive away and go home and when they’ve closed the front door, he steps closer and Rust kisses him quickly before going to the bathroom.  
  
“Maggie says the girls have a crush on you,” he says later. He’s watching a sitcom on the television and Rust’s reading but has his arm wrapped over Marty’s shoulder.  
  
“Shut up,” Rust says.  
  
“I think Maggie’s amused.”  
  
“Amused –“  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “About us. But in a good way.”  
  
Rust shifts on the sofa. Marty bought it last week after asking Rust at least three times what color he prefers. The sofa is dark blue, and he still doesn’t know what’s Rust’s favorite color. The void, probably.  
  
“She says I can bring you with me when I come to dinner. To see the girls.”  
  
“Marty –“  
  
“I’m not saying they could ever replace your kid. God, Rust, I wish I knew what to say.”  
  
“You can’t say anything,” Rust says. His fingertips are light and gentle on Marty’s arm.  
  
“And I get it if you don’t want to be around them. If that’s too much. I get it, really. I just… you can, if you want to. We want you there, me and Maggie.”  
  
“You and Maggie.”  
  
“Yeah.” Marty blinks at the television. “We aren’t going to get back together.”  
  
“Good,” Rust says.  
  
“Yeah, thought you’d like that.”  
  
He can feel Rust breathing out. It’s almost like a tiny laugh.  
  
“So, that’s how it’s going to be from now on,” he says, “for the kids. They’ve got mommy and daddy and daddy’s new boyfriend.”  
  
Rust chews on his lower lip. Marty wants to kiss him but can’t, not from this angle. “Sounds like a mess to me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says, “but if we’ve got any luck, it’s going to take years until the girls figure out all the details.”  
  
“Years –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Rust doesn’t argue about that. A little later, he falls asleep for a few minutes on the sofa, and Marty turns down the volume and listens to him breathing.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So, Marty,” Steve Geraci says to him one morning, when he’s just trying to get his coffee and mind his own business, which at the moment is a body of a young man who tried to wrestle with a motorcycle or something.  
  
“Yeah?” he says anyway, because Steve’s kind of a friend and he’s a people person.  
  
“A divorce, then?” Steve asks. The bastard’s probably trying to be subtle about it.  
  
Marty nods. “Yeah.”  
  
“Sorry about that, man,” Steve says. “So, you’ve got someone new, right?”  
  
“And why would you say that?” Marty asks, taking a sip of his coffee. He can see Rust from here, crouching over his desk. This morning, they fucked in the shower and Marty almost sprained his ankle. Never again. Those tiles are cold and slippery.  
  
“Well, you don’t exactly look like a man who’s not getting any,” Steve says.  
  
“Is that so?” Marty asks. Rust can probably hear them talking.  
  
“You can talk about it, you know. You aren’t married anymore.”  
  
Goddamn, these curious bastards. Marty takes a deep breath and licks his lips. Rust is watching them now. “Why’re you asking, Steve? There not enough entertainment on television? I heard you can try internet for that kind of things these days.”  
  
“Shut up,” Steve says and pats him on the shoulder. “I bet you tell him.”  
  
It takes him a few seconds to realize Steve’s talking about Rust, who’s straightened his back, not even bothering to look like he’s not eavesdropping, the bastard. Marty fucking loves him.  
  
“Well,” he tells Steve, “yeah. Rust’s my partner.”  
  
After work, they drive home together, he and Rust. Rust’s looking terribly tired, which is a fucking disappointment, because the man’s slept a little every night this week, as far as Marty can tell. It seems that Rust sleeps better in Marty’s bed than in his own, which shouldn’t be a surprise at all, because Rust’s bed is just a mattress on the floor. But he sleeps longer if Marty’s not in the room, so if he falls asleep after sex or something, Marty climbs out of the bed as quietly as he can and sneaks to Rust’s room and walks around. Once, he tried to read the book on the floor next to the mattress, but it was too depressing. Maybe if Rust read something more cheerful, he wouldn’t be so gloomy all the time.  
  
So, there’re nights when Rust falls asleep in Marty’s bed and Marty falls asleep in Rust’s, and in the morning, Marty wakes up to Rust doing something in the kitchen wearing nothing but boxers. Life is good.  
  
“You wanted to tell him,” Rust says, looking through the side window.  
  
“No, I didn’t.”  
  
“Sure you did.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Marty says. “You saying that I wanted to tell Steve Geraci that you’re fucking me?”  
  
“Yeah. Not by those words, though.”  
  
Marty frowns at the road. They’re going to run out of toilet paper soon enough but he’s not in a mood to drag Rust to Walmart. He’s got a fucking headache, he wants to be at home and drink beer and watch Rust doing stand-ups. “You think we can keep it a secret?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Rust says. He doesn’t sound worried, though. It shouldn’t be comforting but it is.  
  
“We’re kind of living together.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I could tell them that I have someone, a girlfriend,” Marty says, “so that they wouldn’t wonder, but I don’t really want to do that.”  
  
Rust stays quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I don’t want you to do that, either.”  
  
“So, we’re just going to see how it goes?”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust says in a blank voice. “We’ll see how it goes.”  
  
Marty nods. “Want to go to Walmart today?”  
  
“Fuck no,” Rust says and lights a cigarette, then takes a deep breath. “Alright. We’re running out of toilet paper, anyway.”


End file.
